


the sky i've seen, blue and green

by la_victorienne



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-26
Updated: 2008-07-26
Packaged: 2018-10-16 00:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: the week after jack gets home and everything has gone to hell.





	

Summertime - Mae

Summertime, summertime  
brought me back to thinking you were mine all those times.  
We laid it down and left it all behind, we were blind.  
Oh, the summertime.

We could ride, we could ride.  
Take my hand and watch the world go by.  
Laugh or cry, well we need to try, get off the line, time to fly.  
Oh, the summertime.

Go on ahead and let it fade away.  
No looking back you know the past will stay.  
It's you and me, we could get out of here.  
Jump in and go and we could drive for years.  
We could feel alive...

Here we are, here we are,  
windows down we see a falling star.  
Stop the car.  
Waiting, nothing but our beating hearts, going far.  
Oh, the summertime.

So feel the air, feel the air,  
take the map and point to anywhere.  
I don't care. Fingers through your hair,  
the sky I've seen, blue and green.  
Oh, the summertime.

Driving away, leaving it all behind.  
Driving away  


  
  
Six Rift crises in as many days and Jack has finally reached the point where he’s running just to be running, wound up once right when he came home and slowly being drained away. There’s no peace to be found in this place; the Earth is still reeling from being dragged through time and space and it seems like everything that can go wrong still will. There’s no time for reunions here, no time for anything but stolen kisses and one achingly short hand job in the lower archives, so much like their tentative beginnings it hurts, and Jack finds himself at the end of his rope, frayed and aching.

It’s late. Gwen’s gone home. Martha hasn’t called him back. Jack’s mind feels cluttered and stuffy, like he’s mislaid something and can’t remember what it is, much less where he left it. These are the moments he wishes were not a part of Torchwood, the moments when futility overwhelms him.

He sighs a heavy sigh and feels a vertebra pop, eliciting an almost heinous groan from his lips. Instantly, there are warm hands on his shoulders, trailing down his back, drifting over flat planes and sharp angles. Jack sighs when warm lips touch the back of his neck, just behind his ear, and Ianto’s thumbs start to work on the knots in his muscles, teasing them out tenderly. He wants to say something, compliment Ianto’s long fingers or soft mouth, but instead he arches back and drops his head onto Ianto’s shoulder, letting himself relax. Ianto is silent, too, pressing gentle kisses to Jack’s hairline and kneading his fingers into Jack’s back mercilessly and with no little talent.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispers against Jack’s tan skin, punctuating the remark with a daring nip of the teeth that makes Jack shiver in anticipation. “Anywhere. For a day. The world can handle itself for a day.” He’s not sure what he finds more tempting, the hooky day or the fact that Ianto Jones, world’s most well-dressed rule-maker, suggested it.

“Yes-s,” he breathes, for a moment not the leader, not the Captain, not _the_ anything. He feels Ianto smile against his skin.

“Good. I’ve got a bag for you in the boot of my car. Ready to go?”  
Jack swallows and shakes his head. “N-no,” he stutters, unheeding of the fact that he is practically coming apart under Ianto’s hands. “Not yet,” he breathes, and gropes backward until he finds Ianto’s cheek. Ianto’s fingers stop.

The movement is like lightning; Jack is spinning and Ianto is reaching for him, pulling him out of the chair at the same time as Jack himself is pushing back, and then they’re against the wall and there’s friction and Jack feels better already.

This is what Ianto does to him: takes him out of himself until everything he knows is forgotten, until his senses are filled with Ianto’s taste, scent, texture. There’s heat and sensation and that belief, loud and colorful, that brings him back to life without the broken glass. Jack breathes Ianto in, remembers that this is the reason he came home in the first place, and holds on tight, as tightly as he can possibly manage.

“I don’t need to go anywhere,” Jack says into the bend between Ianto’s neck and shoulder. “This, here, being with you, this is enough,” he murmurs, and the admission leaves him breathless, makes him feel like he’s opened himself up more than he should. Ianto takes it in stride, gasps Jack’s name into the suddenly too-warm air, babbles unintelligible words and makes Jack forget where he is, makes him forget the words ever happened, and then there’s nothing but indescribable bliss.

When they come to, tangled in the bedclothes of Jack’s little cot, Jack has his head on Ianto’s chest for a change, and Ianto’s fingers are carding through his hair. It’s a simple gesture, one that reminds Jack of quiet afternoons and warm sofas, things he should not have and needs to. He closes his eyes again and breathes in deeply, drifting, confident that when it’s time, Ianto will catch him.


End file.
